High Riders: Scott's Story
by PollyVictorian
Summary: The Lancer pilot episode, as told by Scott Lancer.


Lancer Ranch

8th June 1921

Dear Murdo,

Today you turn twenty-one and officially become a part-owner of the Lancer ranch. Of course, you were born and raised on Lancer and you've worked on the ranch since you were old enough to sit on a horse, so in some ways it will make no difference. But in a few important ways, it will. You'll now have to put your signature on legal documents and, more significantly, you'll have to play your part alongside your father in making decisions about Lancer.

I'm getting old enough now to indulge in looking back at the past a little, instead of always thinking ahead to the future – that's your job now – and it occurred to me that I'd like you to know, and perhaps you'd like to know, how it was for me when I first became a partner in Lancer, over fifty years ago.

You already know how it came about, of course. But each person who lives through the same event will have a different experience. If you sit down with your great-uncle Johnny over a bottle of tequila and ask him about those early days, he'll tell you the same facts but a different story. So here is my story: the story of how I became a part of Lancer and a little of what the Lancer ranch has meant to

Your loving grandfather,

Scott Lancer.

* * *

"You're Scott Lancer?" The fellow came up to me as I was leaving the house of the young lady to whom I'd been paying an evening visit.

"And if I am?" I was cautious. He obviously knew me but I had no idea who he was. And he'd called me Scott Lancer. Yes, Lancer was my name but most people I knew in Boston called me Scott Garrett. Only acquaintances from my army days knew me as Lancer and this chap, although well-dressed, hardly had a military air about him. His next words explained the name but added to the puzzle.

"The son of Murdoch Lancer?" he asked.

"So I'm told – never met the gentleman myself," I replied. Never met him, never heard from him, only heard his name mentioned once or twice in my life. How did my virtually unknown father come to be a topic of conversation with a total stranger on a Boston street at eleven o'clock on a February night? The fellow was speaking again.

"Larbey's the name, Pinkerton office," he introduced himself. "We find people." He added, handing me his card.

"Well, I haven't lost any," I replied, "so much as I've enjoyed our little conversation ..." Whatever strange business was going on here, I didn't want to be mixed up in it. I started to walk away but stopped at the Pinkerton agent's next words.

"Your father wants to see you and he's willing to pay for it. All expenses to California and a thousand dollars for one hour of your time."

* * *

I had plenty to think about that night. My father. What I had told the Pinkerton agent was precisely correct. I had never met my father, Murdoch Lancer. Never heard from him. Barely heard of him. My mother had died when I was born out West and her father, my grandfather Harlan Garrett, had taken me back to his home in Boston and raised me. When I was twelve years old I heard about my father; how he had a ranch out West. Grandfather said that yes, it was true, I had a father living in California, but he had no interest in me whatsoever. I had no reason to doubt what my grandfather said. There had been no visits, no gifts, no letters to indicate otherwise. In the twenty-four years since my grandfather had brought me to Boston, my father had made no contact with me. Until now.

Why now? was the obvious question but that had equally obvious answers. Perhaps he had mellowed with time, or was feeling regret as he got older, or perhaps he had not wanted the bother of a child but felt he could be on friendly terms with a grown man. Any of those I could understand. No, the real question was: Why this way? If he wanted to see me, why not just write a letter and ask me to visit? Why the hired agent? And the payment – what was behind that? Why did he assume I would have to be bribed? If he'd written asking me to see him and I'd refused, it would make sense but as it was …

I could see two possible reasons for sending the Pinkerton agent, although only one had any sense to it. That was, that he thought I might not read any letter he sent and wanted to be sure that I got the invitation. That implied that there was something important behind it, some serious reason he wanted to see me. And some urgency, too. He hadn't even bothered trying a letter first – because he didn't want to risk a delay? That would account for the offer of payment, too. Not that I wanted the money; I would refuse it if he tried to give it to me. I wasn't some petty money-grubber. I didn't have to be paid to give a little of my time to my own father.

The other possible reason was that he thought I wouldn't get the letter, but that was absurd. The only thing that could make him think that was if he had written and got no reply; but if he had sent me any letters my grandfather would have made sure I received them. In fact, soon after Grandfather had told me about my father, I decided to write to him and Grandfather had encouraged me; it was the proper thing for a son to write to his father. I had given the letter to my grandfather to read, of course, and he had approved. And mailed it for me. When there was no reply, Grandfather had pointed out how it proved that my father wanted nothing to do with me. He tactfully never mentioned my father again.

Now, Murdoch Lancer wanted to see me. Or needed to see me. I wanted to find out why. And I wanted to find out what he was like, this father of mine, to put a face and a character into that empty place in the background of my life. And perhaps to find out why there had never been a word from him in twenty-four years.

My grandfather was upset when I told him I was thinking of going to visit my father. He pleaded with me not to consider the idea. It would only be unpleasant for me, he said. When I respectfully but firmly persisted, he actually got angry. In all the years of my life, I had never seen my grandfather angry before. My father had no right to demand me now, he declared, almost shouting, and there was no need for me to go out to a dirty, primitive place like California to see him. I owed my father nothing.

I thought to myself that after a year in a Confederate prisoner-of-war camp, the words "dirty and primitive" could hold no terrors for me but I didn't say so. That was a part of my life that Grandfather did not, and never would be able to, understand. And with all due respect to my grandfather, he was wrong. I did owe my father something, simply by the fact that he was my father and I was his son. I owed him a son's duty and I owed him a chance.

I was going to California.

* * *

I was in a stagecoach heading towards a town called Morro Coyo. It was the nearest town to my father's ranch, apparently. The Pinkerton agent had given me full directions \and said that he would advise my father when to expect me. I had politely declined the money he had offered me for travelling expenses and had given him a handsome tip as thanks for his assistance.

The trip had been exhilarating, if a little rough at times, especially after leaving St Louis and really getting into the West. Truth to tell, I was glad to get away from Boston for a while. I hadn't been able to settle since coming back after leaving the army and had found the last two years hard. A puzzling statement, that, to most people, because in one sense they had been very easy. Nothing to do but participate in the life of Boston's fine society – and that was the trouble. I had nothing to do. Officially, of course, I was on the board of several of my grandfather's companies and he would often talk of "when young Scotty takes over" but in practice the well-established businesses pretty much ran themselves and Grandfather was a long way from handing over the reins to me. After four years of focusing on the next battle, the next march, the next manoeuvre or – in the prison camp – the next plan for escape, I now had nothing to work at, nothing beyond the next tea-dance to plan for. Somehow, the tea-dances just weren't satisfying.

Oh, I tried. I had more sense than to sit at home and sulk. I went out, I took pains to mix with the most intelligent, most interesting people – and Boston had some very good, very fine people, believe me. I became engaged to a lovely young woman from one of the best families. I was popular, I was admired, I was miserable. I didn't know myself what I wanted; just something to work at, something real to do. It was the rock Julie and I split on at last. An old friend from the 83rd was going to Panama. He'd got involved in a company that had been formed to dig a canal across the Isthmus and he invited me to buy in and go along with him. Julie just couldn't understand. Surely I had everything I could – or should – want, here in Boston? I said, in a nutshell, "If you love me, you'll follow me, no matter where I go." She said – well, it came to "I want to marry Scott Garrett, pillar of Boston society" not "I love Scott Lancer, whatever he may do."

A broken engagement doesn't exactly make things easy or comfortable. The projected Panama expedition came to nothing – the company went unspectacularly bust, fortunately before I'd put any money into it. Nonetheless, it had made me realise I had to do something, even if I hadn't yet figured out what. I flitted about Boston society and flirted amongst the Boston ladies, and wondered what I was going to do. Then along came the good gentleman from Pinkerton's. And now I was in a very well-worn stagecoach on a very bumpy road in what I was still thinking of as the wilds of California.

We were about ten miles away from the town when the coach slowed and stopped. I put my head out the window. A young man – a cowboy, I guessed – had hailed the coach and was asking, "You going to Morro Coyo?"

"Unless I'm lost," the driver replied..

"Mind if I get a lift?"

"Sure thing," said the driver, but adding "We'll take care of that gun of yours."

"Seem like we're picking up another passenger," I remarked to my fellow travellers. The door opened and the young man climbed in. He dropped into the seat beside me, lurching against me as the stage started moving, and cramming himself between me and the padre on his other side.

"Didn't mean to mess up your outfit," he smirked, gesturing towards the frills on my shirt. I wasn't going to bite.

"Can't be helped," I replied. Ten miles to Morro Coyo.

* * *

I clambered thankfully out of the stagecoach and gathered up my baggage. The cowboy was collecting his gun and saddle from the driver. A girl of about seventeen or eighteen came up, apparently looking for someone.

"Mr Lancer?"  
"That's me," I answered. "Yeah," said a voice from behind me.  
"I'm sorry," said the girl, "which one of you said ..."  
"I did," we both replied. I looked around for the other speaker. It was the cowboy. The girl spoke again.  
"You're Johnny?" She looked at the cowboy.  
"That's right."  
"Then you're Scott Lancer," to me.  
"No, ma'am, he's no Lancer," said the cowboy. "My mother only had one kid … that was me."  
"Likewise," I stated, wondering what the hell this fellow was playing at.  
"Oh, well, we didn't expect you both at the same time," said the girl, "but actually you're right. It's Mr Lancer that had two."  
"Two … what?" I asked in the patient voice that comes through gritted teeth.  
"Wives. And sons. You two," she explained.

I looked at the cowboy. He looked at me.

We looked at each other.

* * *

"Tell me, Teresa, do you work for my father? " I asked, then corrected myself, " ... our father?" 'Our' father. Barely getting used to speaking of 'my father' and now it was 'our'. The girl, who was accompanied by two ranch hands, or vaqueros as I learned to call them, had introduced herself as Teresa O'Brien and was efficiently driving the buckboard that my … our … father had sent to meet us.  
"I was born on Lancer. My father was the foreman here for fifteen years," she replied.  
"Was?" I queried.  
"He was murdered last November, at the same time that Mr Lancer was shot." She kept her voice matter-of-fact but I could sense the effort it took.  
"Murdered by who?" Johnny asked.  
"Mr Lancer will tell you that. What he won't tell you," she added, "is how much it means to him that you've both come here." How much it meant to him? After twenty-four years of silence?

We were driving along a ridge running above a wide valley spreading back to distant mountain ranges. Teresa drew the buckboard to a halt. Instinctively I stood as I looked out at the valley … and looked … at a vista like nothing I had seen before. Spectacular, magnificent – all the adjectives together couldn't reach far enough for what was in front of me. Strangely, Teresa came closest to doing it justice with a ridiculously child-like phrase:

"There it is. As far as the eye can see. The most beautiful place in the whole wide world ... Lancer!"

It was a dream; a vision; a vision of a dream.

It was what I was looking for.

Lancer.

I barely noticed that Johnny was standing too.

* * *

We drove on down the road and through a white entrance arch. I heard shouts as we approached the ranch. "Muchachos!" was all I could make out. I had my first inkling that there would be things I needed to learn in California. Like Spanish. Teresa drew the buckboard to a halt outside the main door of the hacienda. A middle-aged Mexican woman met us in the hallway as we went in.

"Where is Mr Lancer, Maria?"

"In the Great Room, Señorita Teresa."

Teresa started leading us toward a double door but I noticed Johnny had already turned in the right direction. I hadn't thought about it until now but I realised that, of course, he must have been here before, must have lived here. He told me later that he didn't properly remember the ranch or the house; it was just a vague recognition that made it easy for him to find his way around. At the time, though, I felt a distinct surge of sibling jealousy that made me march forward and override Teresa's gentle tap at the door with a resounding knock.

"It's open." A man's voice came from inside the room. I opened the doors, Johnny and I walked in and the two of us stood facing Murdoch Lancer.

Murdoch Lancer. I looked at him at him and saw nothing. An expression on his face as hard as the granite of his native Scotland. A man who, despite leaning on a cane, gave an impression of no physical weakness at all. This was the father who in twenty-four years had not once treated me as a son. Even now, I was not a son – I was someone he had paid to come here. Well, damn him, I would make it clear that I was here by my own choice, not because I'd been hired or bought.

"Drink?" An abrupt offer as uninviting as his countenance.  
"No, thank you." My voice was cooler than I intended. He turned to Johnny.  
"You drink, don't you?"  
"When I know the man I'm drinkin' with, yeah." Johnny responded.  
"You've got your mother's temper!" my father retorted. He turned back to me. "You've got your mother's eyes." A memory of someone he'd lost twenty-five years before. That was the only connection between us.  
"Well, I want a drink," he went on. He started for the tray but stopped and turned as Johnny growled, "You got somethin' to say, old man, say it."  
He went to the desk, pulled two envelopes out of a folder and threw them onto the desktop.

"A thousand dollars apiece," he said, sitting down at the desk. Johnny strode over and picked up one of the envelopes.

"Maybe you'd better count it," suggested Murdoch.

"I plan to," Johnny assured him.  
"Come and get your money." This was to me. The moment was here; it was time to show Murdoch Lancer where I stood. I was not going to take the money but I would not give him the satisfaction of making a grand declaration. I would simply dismiss the idea as unimportant.  
"I'll settle for this drink."  
His response was lightning fast. "You'll do as you're told!"  
"Will I?" My response was as swift as his, and as firm. Power struggle. Battle of wills. Call it whatever you like, we engaged in it. And we both realised in that moment – that we were equal. My father never again gave me that sort of order. His next words were addressed to both of us but spoken to me: "I want no favours from either one of you."

The words said everything. A statement of fact but also an explanation; he had ceded the rights of a father to ask anything of his sons. I stopped trying to prove the point. Suddenly, I didn't need to anymore. I walked over to the desk and picked up the money.

"Far be it from me to spoil a family reunion," I said. "Thanks." I put the envelope in my jacket pocket without opening it. I'd return it when the time was right, when he knew that my coming wasn't a favour. "What do I call you?" I went on. "Under the circumstances 'Father' hardly seems ..."  
"Call me anything you like," he snapped. "We're strangers to each other; maybe that's my fault and maybe it isn't." I felt a touch of disappointment. I suppose, deep down, I'd been hoping he'd say, "Of course you should call me Father," and there we'd be, father and son. But no, it was going to take a lot more than that. The question was, where to start? Well, 'when in doubt, simply be courteous'.  
"No apology necessary," I told him very graciously.  
"You'll get no apology from me!" he snapped. Oh, well, didn't work this time.

"If the air needs clearing," my father went on, standing up and walking around the desk, "then let's clear it." He came up to me first.  
"Your mother's family thought she was daft to marry me, not a year off the boat from Inverness - and maybe they were right. You were born; she died; I left you in their hands. Period." He turned to Johnny. "A couple of years later I met your mother down in Matamoros. She ... We got married. Two years after that, I woke one morning, found her gone, you along with her."  
"That ain't the way I heard it!" Johnny snapped.  
"I don't care what you heard!" my father returned. "It's past. Bad or good, right or wrong, it's past and gone. We're talking about now, what's happening out there, to this ranch." He walked over to the window. Now we were getting to it. The real reason why we were here. And Murdoch Lancer was talking now, instead of just saying words.

"The girl Teresa said you were having some trouble," I said, sitting down on the edge of the desk. Alright, people getting shot and killed wasn't just "some trouble" but I didn't want to pre-empt anything. I wanted to hear the whole story from him.

"Last fall, somebody made off with one of our horses," he began. "My segundo and I trailed him to Morro Coyo. We walked right into it. O'Brien was killed and I ended up with this leg that's gone sour on me. Since then, my fences have been cut, beef stolen, workers frightened off, burned out. Three months ago I had a hundred and fifty vaqueros, now I've got eighteen."

"Well then, that's the ranch you're worried about, huh?" The touch of bitterness was unmistakable in Johnny's voice. My father turned towards the window and looked out over the land.

"I love this ground more than anything God ever created," he said. " I've got a grey hair for every good blade of grass that you see out there." I could hear more in his voice than even those heartfelt words were saying. And I understood. I recalled what I had felt for Lancer in only a few moments. What must it be to him after half a lifetime?

He added sharply, "They're trying to drive me off this place."  
"Who?" from Johnny.  
"You'll hear them called 'land pirates'. That's close enough," he told us.  
"You mean to tell me that men can just come along and drive you off your land?" I queried incredulously.  
"They're doing it. Since I was hit, they've taken three other estancias" he told us.  
"What about the law?" I was feeling indignant for this man. I wanted to be on his side.  
"There isn't any," my father responded. "They killed two good men, Joe Carbajal from Modesto, Petersen from San Jose. The others quit, found business elsewhere. The only law we've got here is pack law, the big dog gets the meat. By summer, they'll own half of this state."  
"Has 'big dog' got a name?" asked Johnny.  
"Pardee."  
"Day, Day Pardee," Johnny filled in.  
"You know him?" my father queried.  
"Oh yes, I know him. He's a gunfighter, and he's pretty good. Yeah, I'd say you have some kinda trouble," Johnny almost smirked.  
"Just how many men does he have, this Pardee?" I asked.  
"Twenty or twenty-five." The answer astonished me.  
"That doesn't exactly put him in a class with Attila the Hun!" I exclaimed. How could a handful of men like that be causing such havoc?  
"You've got the floor," said my father.

We were talking easily now. It had taken surprisingly little time but, right from the start, when it came to working together Murdoch Lancer and I were a good partnership. And this was a project I could get my teeth into; a task I could focus on, for the first time since leaving the army. Something real to do, and it felt good.

I strode over to the map on the wall.  
"Well, it seems to me you have a very simple military problem here. One, find the enemy; two, engage him; three, destroy him." To be honest, I didn't see why it was a problem at all. Twenty-five men couldn't be so hard to deal with. But Johnny was giving a wry laugh.

"Something funny?" I queried.  
"He's saying it's not that kind of a fight," responded my father, "but," facing Johnny, "you could be wrong. I've got eighteen good men; only the best stayed. You two make twenty."  
"Now wait a minute," protested Johnny, "this is listenin' money. Now all of a sudden, you're talkin' 'bout gun money. Let me tell you something, that's extra, that don't come on no lunch."  
"I want more than your guns," said Murdoch Lancer.  
"What more?" Johnny demanded.  
"I want your arms and your legs and your guts, if you've got any." He looked t me for a moment then back at Johnny.  
"Alright," said Johnny, "say I come up with all these arms and legs and guts you're talkin' about. What do you come up with?"  
"One third."  
"Of what?"  
"Everything you see out there," said my father. "One hundred thousand acres, twenty thousand head of beef, the finest compañera de palominos in the San Joaquin."

I was still, taking it in. Lancer. A share of Lancer. There was no need to think about it. Whatever it meant, whatever I had to do, I'd do it. To myself, I'd accepted the offer before Murdoch Lancer had finished speaking.

It was otherwise with Johnny. Sceptical, he responded "One third, huh? You wouldn't mind puttin' that down on a piece of paper would you? No offense." His tone said he meant offense but Murdoch Lancer was prepared. He drew a sheet of paper out of his pocketbook.  
"This do? An agreement of partnership. Equal shares to each of us but I call the tune." He looked over at me. "Agreed?"  
I nodded. Done. No words, but for me it was as firm as a document signed and sealed. I was part of Lancer.

Johnny wasn't so quick.  
"You didn't sign it."  
"Nothing for nothing. You'll get your share of this ranch when you prove to me you're man enough to hold it," my father told him.  
"When's that?" Johnny snapped.  
"When you get the man that put the bullet in my back!" was my father's answer.  
"Pardee."  
"That's the one," said Murdoch Lancer. Johnny looked grim.  
"Well lemme tell you, old man, you want a lot," he declared.  
"Take it or leave it," was the response.

The clanging of a bell from outside the hacienda interrupted the tug-of-war.  
"Fire bell!"  
Fire. Neither of us questioned whether or not to go. Fighting fire is an instinct that goes pretty deep. We dropped our jackets in the hallway as we ran, my father behind us as fast as his injured leg would allow him to move. A field about a mile from the house was burning. Every hand on the place, including Teresa, was there, throwing water and beating at the flames but it was no good. The fire had taken too strong a hold. At last my father gave the order to quit.

"Let it go. It's already got too much of a head start on us. Let it burn up to the ridge."  
"Isn't there something we can do?" asked Teresa.  
"No, the field's gone, honey. It'll burn itself out by nightfall." He came over to Johnny and me.  
"Take a good look at it. This is the third field that Pardee has destroyed.. I told you, you would have to fight to hold onto this place. What do you say?"  
He didn't need to ask me.  
"I've already given you my answer," I declared. He turned to Johnny.  
"What about you, boy?" Johnny looked across the blackened field for a moment then said,  
"Hate to see my property go up in flames."  
"Our property," I corrected. I wondered if this Day Pardee was the only one I was going to have to fight to hold onto Lancer.

* * *

Evening. We were at the dining table, eating a meal both cooked and served by Maria. There seemed to be very few household servants and I guessed that the domestic staff had been frightened off as well as the ranch hands.

We had all cleaned up and changed. My father and Teresa were neat, of course, but my shirt was creased from being packed in my valise and Johnny's was downright crumpled. That didn't stop him from having a dig at my clothes, though.  
"Nice ruffles, Boston" he remarked. "Got them on all your shirts?"  
"Not all," I replied. Best not to say more.  
"I'm disappointed."  
A Boston gentleman once advised me, "If you feel yourself getting irritated by a conversational subject, then change the subject." A true gentleman he was, from one of the oldest families. His advice was good. I changed the subject.

"Are all the cattle on the ranch Longhorns, sir?" I asked, turning to my father. Damn it, I still hadn't figured out what to call him. 'Sir' was all well and good, but not every time I spoke to him. It seemed to please him that I was taking an interest in the ranch, though.  
"Yes, they grow well in this country. The Central Valley produces some of the finest beef in America. They're wild though, hard to handle. Can't transport them any great distance by rail – they thrash about inside the cars and injure themselves, sometimes even break the cars apart. That's why we have the cattle drives."  
"I've heard about them," I remarked.  
"They're quite a sight. The next big one will be in a couple of months. You'll see it then – if you're still here," he added.  
"I intend to be here," I assured him. He smiled a strange sort of smile, more on one side of his mouth than the other, as if there were other emotions working alongside the satisfaction he felt at my answer. Something clicked – I'd seen that sort of smile before … once before …  
"Did you come to Boston once, when I was very young?" I asked abruptly.  
"Yes, Scott, I did," he said quietly.  
"It was my birthday." He nodded. I drew a deep breath. Once, for a whole childhood. And he'd been introduced to me not as my father, but as my grandfather's friend, named Murdoch. Still, it was something and …  
"Well, that solves one problem," I said.  
"Which one?" asked my father.  
"What to call you. You were introduced to me then as Murdoch, so that's the name I'll call you by."

I waited to see how he would react to the suggestion. He smiled and nodded. I think he was relieved to have a solution to that dilemma, too.

"Yes, I think that will work well. And you, Johnny? What do you want to call me? Will Murdoch do, or do you want to stick with 'Old Man'?" There was a hint of challenge in Murdoch Lancer's voice, as if he and Johnny were establishing territory here. Johnny's tone matched his.  
"Murdoch sounds about right. I'm sure not gonna call you Mr Lancer every second breath and the time for callin' you Pa is long gone." There was no mistaking the touch of anger in his voice as he said that last part. But then he grinned and added, "but I might save 'Old Man' to use sometimes."

My father turned to Teresa with a look and voice far different. "And what about you, Teresa? You're a daughter of the house, now. My sons will be calling me Murdoch; I'd like you to call me that, too. "  
"Well," she hesitated, "if you don't think it sounds too disrespectful …"  
"I think 'Mr Lancer' sounds too distant." His smile was tender as he looked at her and I thought that, in many ways, Teresa was more his daughter than Johnny and I were his sons. I thought so even more as I watched her smile back at him.  
"Well, then, yes, I would like to." Simple words with a world of meaning.  
"Settled, then," said Murdoch.

"You know," said Teresa after a few moments, "it's a very sensible idea as well. I mean, with three Mr Lancers in the house, things could get confusing."  
"Two!" said Johnny sharply.  
"What?" said Teresa.  
"There are only two Mr Lancers in the house. My name's not Lancer, it's Madrid."  
"You answered to Lancer this morning," I pointed out. It would be a while before the shock of that encounter wore off.  
"Yeah, because Teresa was obviously lookin' for me." I thought that, since I was the one scheduled to arrive by that stagecoach, it was probably me she was looking for, but I let it pass. "Make no mistake, though," Johnny went on, "I got no reason to want to be a Lancer. My name's Madrid; that's the name I'll give when anyone asks me and Madrid is the name that will go on that agreement when I've taken care of Day Pardee."

Whew. I was starting to wonder what the story was behind Johnny. I would have said that I had more reason to resent Murdoch; after all, he was the one who had virtually abandoned me, albeit to family. Even so, I had stuck to the name Lancer, in spite of my grandfather's urgings to legally change it to Garrett. But in Johnny's case, surely it was his mother he should resent, not his father, if what Murdoch had said earlier was right. But then I remembered Johnny's declaration, "That ain't the way I heard it!" and wondered what he _had_ heard that made him hate Murdoch Lancer so much that he wouldn't use his own father's name.

Murdoch was simply nodding acceptance, his expression closed. It was Teresa who responded, sounding more worried than anything else.  
"But, Johnny, mightn't that be dangerous? I mean, people might think you're that Johnny Madrid, the gunfighter from Mexico."

Johnny gave Murdoch an amused look. "Didn't you warn her, ol' man?"

"No, Johnny, I didn't think it necessary to mention it," he replied.

"Mention what?" I asked. What on earth was going on now?

"That I am Johnny Madrid, the gunfighter from Mexico," he grinned.

Teresa was staring open-mouthed. "You're … you're Johnny Madrid?" she exclaimed.

"At your service, ma'am."

"Someone enlighten me, please," I said, "Who is Johnny Madrid?"

Teresa stared at me now, in amazement. "You've never heard of Johnny Madrid?"

"His fame hasn't reached Boston yet, apparently," remarked Murdoch.

"Why, he's the most notorious, most wanted, most bloodthirsty …" She stopped suddenly, realizing she was talking about the man seated opposite her.

"… most ruthless, most vicious killer in all of Mexico and the border towns," Johnny finished for her, still grinning.

"Oh, that's who he is, is he? For a minute there I was worried," I responded drily. "It wouldn't be a case of fame outstripping fact, now would it?"

"Well, maybe," said Johnny, then added with a sudden narrowing of the eyes and disappearance of the grin, "or maybe not."

That was our first evening as the Lancer family. An odd sort of family, in fact not really a family yet, and I wondered if we ever would be. All of us strangers to each other, except for Murdoch and Teresa, and only two of us even using the Lancer name. I was glad, now, that I had insisted on keeping my own name. Being a Lancer would make it that much easier to become a part of Lancer. And it was Lancer that linked us all together. Lancer, that my father had given half his life to building. Lancer, the only home Teresa had ever known. Lancer, that Johnny ... what was Lancer to Johnny? That was one thing I didn't know yet. But I knew what Lancer was to me: it was the place where my future lay.

* * *

Surprisingly, I had trouble getting to sleep that night. I should have slept well; I was certainly weary enough, after the long journey plus the fire fighting. But tired as I was in body, my mind wouldn't rest. I'd come for a visit and now I was starting a new life. I had a new purpose, new work, a new family, a new home. All in a matter of hours. Not surprisingly, I had trouble getting to sleep that night.

I had a brother. Well, it was not extraordinary that my father had married again; he'd still been a young man when my mother died. I hadn't heard about it, but then I had never heard more than an occasional mention of my father until the night the Pinkerton agent stopped me. The ironic thing was, that my brother had had almost as little contact with our father as me.

I wondered how – no, make that if – we were ever going to be brothers to one another. I'd studied at Harvard; by the sound of his grammar, he'd studied nowhere. I'd been an army officer; he was a gunfighter, one of the ten-dollars-a-day-plus-bullets characters who drifted around the border towns. I didn't take Teresa's awestruck description too seriously. (I learned I was wrong later, of course, but for the moment, ignorance was bliss.) More, he resented both Murdoch and me. He was keeping up the barrier between himself and Murdoch and as for me, well, I got the impression he was trying to ignore my existence. Apart from the comments on my shirts, he'd hardly spoken a word to me directly. He saw me as a rival, perhaps, but as a brother, definitely not. How was he going to work with us, either right now, dealing with these 'land pirates' or later, as a partner in the ranch?

Then there was Teresa. She was clearly more than just an employee's daughter. Presumably she had no close relatives, since she'd stayed at Lancer after her father's death. She and Murdoch were obviously close and I wondered whether Murdoch was her legal guardian. Her godfather, perhaps? However it might be, she was, as Murdoch had said, now a daughter of the house. She seemed a nice child and I admired the way she had done her part in fighting the fire, and her self-control when she spoke about her father's death. No fuss or begging for sympathy, even with something as dreadful as that must have been for her.

And Murdoch Lancer. My father. In less than a day, he'd gone from a faceless name to a man who would play a big part in my life. We'd taken the first steps towards a good working partnership and, I hoped, a friendship between two grown men, but becoming father and son was going to take time.

I respected him for his refusal to be driven off the land that was rightfully his. Even if it meant giving two-thirds of it away, he wouldn't yield to this Pardee's intimidation. And I admired him for not being too proud to do what was necessary to keep the ranch. He was right, what was needed was not just guns; he could have hired two dozen Johnny Madrids for far less than the value of even one third of Lancer. No, it was the arms and legs and guts that would succeed here and they can't be bought for cash. You have to be fighting for what's yours to bring in that sort of strength. I'd seen it in the war time after time; the soldiers who were there for the adventure or the pay didn't last long and didn't do much good while they were there. The soldiers who believed in what they were fighting for were the men worth having. To fight and win, you have to be fighting for what is yours – your beliefs, your family, your love – or your land.

And who could he bear to give the land to, but his sons? That was why he had sent for us. Lancer. Lancer was stronger than his pride, stronger than the years of silence. And for me, Lancer was stronger than the resentment for those years of silence, strong enough to let me put the past in the past. Yes, I still wondered – why had Murdoch come only once, why hadn't he told me, that one time, that he was my father? But it could keep. One day, perhaps, I would know. I was glad, though, I thought once again as I finally drifted into a few hours of sleep, that I had kept the name Lancer. I was glad that I had chosen to remain Murdoch Lancer's son.

* * *

"Come right in," I invited Johnny, who had opened the door of my room without knocking and already stepped inside. I was just finishing shaving.  
"Sleep well?" I asked him.  
"I always sleep well!" This boy sure knew how to be irritating. Though maybe, this time, it was just me.  
"Well now, will you look at this." He picked up something from the table. "They're all over the place."  
"What?" I asked.  
"This, this twenty dollar gold piece. Found one in my room too. It's like guest money, you know, saves you from askin' for a loan," he explained, holding it out to me.  
"Nice custom," I remarked as I walked past him.  
"Teaches you somethin'. Teaches you: never pass up a twenty dollar gold piece," he declared.  
"Help yourself, it's yours," I told him. Not even the 'guest money' was I going to touch. I didn't intend to be a guest.  
"Well, thank you." He tucked the money in his pocket as I added, "A third of it anyway."  
"Talkin' 'bout that piece of paper he showed us?" Johnny asked. I said nothing and he continued.  
"Let me tell you somethin' 'bout paper, touch a match to it and it burns right up."  
"You don't give the old man too much credit, do you?" I commented.  
"Well, I tell you, I don't give anybody too much credit; saves a lot of disappointment," he responded.

He picked up a photograph I had unpacked a little earlier. It was of the General and me. I didn't know myself why I had brought it. It was a ridiculous thing to carry along on what I had thought at the time would be a one month trip but a sudden impulse as I was packing made me put it in my valise. I suppose because it reminded me of my other self: Captain Scott Lancer, man of action and purpose. The man I wanted to be again. And, as it turned out, the man I was becoming again here on Lancer.

"Well, will you look at that?" remarked Johnny. "Hey, who's this other officer all smarted up?"  
"It's General Phil Sheridan. I was in his unit during the war," I informed him.  
"Very pretty," he commented.  
"I photograph well," I replied. Definitely irritating, I thought.  
"Yeah, you are kind of a snappy dresser at that." He went on, "What kind of a unit you say that was?"  
We were interrupted by Teresa bouncing into the room – without knocking – with an annoyingly cheerful "Good morning!".

I was getting exasperated with Western manners. "Does anyone around here ever knock when they enter a room?"  
"Oh, think of me like a sister," was her response. She went on, "Hey, Cipriano's cut out two horses for you. He's waiting in the corral."  
"You tell him, I'll be right down." Johnny said.  
She picked up my best hat, gave it an odd look and declared as she left, "We're going to have to buy you some new clothes for living around here."

I was also getting fed up with all the comments on my wardrobe. First Johnny, now the girl.  
"What's wrong with my clothes?" I demanded, glaring at Johnny.  
"Well, I mean, if you're plannin' on stayin' in these parts," Johnny paused, implication in his momentary silence, "well, that just ain't the style."  
"Of course I'm planning to stay." I went across to the closet for a shirt. Johnny moved towards the door, then paused again..  
"Well look, I tell you…" he started.  
"Get it said, brother!" I waited. I'd suspected he hadn't come in just for a friendly visit.  
Johnny looked up, "Just this; what I got in mind is pretty much of a one man deal."

What, did he expect me to cringe? I wondered if all that 'top-notch gunfighter' stuff had gone to his head. I certainly wasn't going to go along with it, so I gave him a half-smile and said,  
"Now, you're going to make me feel left out of things if you're not careful."  
"Better left out than in a ditch, with ants crawlin' across your eyeballs. That don't photograph too well," he smirked as he left the room.

I wasn't worried.

* * *

"Really something, isn't he?" declared Teresa. She was sitting on the fence of the corral watching Johnny as he brought an unbroken horse under control – one of the Lancer palominos our father had mentioned the previous day.  
"The horse?" I asked, knowing perfectly well she didn't mean the horse.  
"No! Johnny!" she said, not bothering to tone down the admiration in her voice. She added, "Your horse is over there." She pointed to a brown horse that could charitably be described as placid. Or accurately as old. The expression on her face was almost scornful; she clearly had formed a poor opinion of me when it came to manly accomplishments.

"Hey, good, Johnny, you broke him!" She shouted as Johnny rode up to us. "That was wonderful!" Admiration? It was almost hero-worship. It shouldn't have bothered me. She was not much above a child, closer to Johnny in age and immaturity. I didn't want to impress her. But her despising me rankled.  
"Ah, that's a good animal," said Johnny, sliding off the palomino. He grinned and pointed to the placid brown horse. "See that one over there? That's yours, Boston."  
"Yeah, I saw it," I said. "Saw this one as well." I stepped up to the palomino and put my hand on its rein.  
"Hey, what do you think you're doin'?" said Johnny. And as I put my foot in the stirrup, "I wouldn't do that if I were you!"

It was the first thing I did that day that I was ashamed of later. I told myself I was making things clear but in truth I was just plain showing off. I saw the vaqueros gasp in alarm and duck out of harm's way as I jumped on the barely broken horse and set him galloping down the length of the corral. I put him to the corral fence then made a wide circle to approach a wagon standing in the stableyard. I took him over the wagon then swept around again to bring him over the fence once more and back into the corral. It wasn't an easy ride by any means, but no worse than handling a horse terrified by cannon fire. I rode him back to Johnny and Teresa and pulled up.

"You're right, he is a fine animal," I said to Johnny as I dismounted. "And in answer to your question earlier, it was a cavalry unit I was in." I had to give Johnny this; when he found he was wrong, he would concede not just graciously, but whole-heartedly.

"Well, I'll say one thing, Boston, you sure do know how to ride. You scared the pants off of those cowhands. Didn't he?" He grinned at Teresa, and then looked narrowly back to me. "But that don't make you ready for Day Pardee. You're gonna end up with a bullet in your back."  
"There's an awful lot of back shooting going on around here. What happened to the code of the West?" I queried.  
"Well, you see, that's it," he replied. "You gotta do it to them before they do it to you." He jumped onto the horse.  
"See you," he said.  
"Where shall I tell Mr. Lancer you're going?" Teresa called out as he turned away.  
"Tell him I've gone into town to break up one of them gold pieces."

We watched as he rode off and I wondered where he was really intending to go. No use wondering, though, I thought. If he wanted to make it a one man show, well, that was up to him. I turned around to go find Cipriano and see about a decent horse, now that I'd proved that I could ride one, and noticed that Teresa was smiling at me with a touch of admiration on her face.

* * *

"That horse, isn't that the one Johnny was riding?" I said to Teresa as we came into Morro Coyo in the buckboard. She was carrying out her threat of buying me some new clothes. I resisted at first, but when Murdoch, appealed to by Teresa for his opinion, had simply said, "Good idea" in a dry tone that in a dour Scotsman almost passed for humour, I had finally admitted to myself that they were probably right.

"I think so ..." she started.  
"Señorita Teresa, por favor!" called a voice from further along the street. We drove up to the general store where a man, apparently the owner, was standing outside.  
"Don Valdomero, this is Scott Lancer," Teresa introduced us. "He's come to buy some things."  
"Welcome, Señor, please, this way," urged Don Valdomero as I climbed down from the buckboard. I helped Teresa down and we went inside.

"Ah, perhaps this one, Señor." Don Valdomero handed a hat to me.  
"Thank you, I'll try it. Meanwhile, you might ask Miss Teresa what else she thinks I need to be properly dressed out here?"

I waited for Teresa to flare but she didn't. She was young in years and experience alright but not a child in temper. Besides, I thought I was being ironic but in fact I was right. Truth was, I did need the clothes and Teresa had a far better idea of what to get than I did. She was well aware of this and came back at me very neatly.

"Well, he needs everything," she said to Don Valdomero. "He needs some trousers and a jacket and some work shirts. And don't worry," she assured me sweetly, "I'll pick out some very, very nice things for you. Come on, Mr Valdomero. Oh, and listen, I'm not quite sure of his size but I'm sure we can figure it out. We can ask him later." They walked over to the other side of the store, Don Valdomero declaring,  
"For the son of Mr Lancer, we shall find the best!"

"I was looking at that hat, mister." The speaker was a hulk of a man, plenty of brawn that may or may not have been accompanied by brains. Another man was with him, well dressed in the Western style. I decided to play along and see what would happen.  
"If you say so." I gave him the hat. He pushed me back and stood in front of the mirror.  
"Am I bothering you?" I asked.  
"Not yet!" he sneered. I picked up another hat from the table.  
"I was gonna look at that one, too." He made a grab for the hat.  
"Not this time, friend. One side, please." I pushed him out of the way. He gave a laugh and stepped in front of the mirror again.  
"Are you talking to me, friend?" he said. Menacing was the word. I decided it was time to take the offensive.

"Where I come from, there are two ways to settle this kind of a situation," I remarked. "Yep, one is ..." The element of surprise is good to have when it's two against one. I elbowed one and floored the other. They got up and came at me as a third man slipped in through the rear door of the store – he must have been waiting. I heard Teresa yelling, "Stop it!" and Valdomero lamenting in the background but I had my hands full with the three of them.

Teresa must have gone outside at some point because she was there when I landed in the street. She knelt beside me as I got my breath back. The three men came out of the store and walked past us without saying a word. But I was pleased to see that two of them were staggering a little and they all looked a mess.

"Scott, are you all right? Here, let me help you to the buckboard," said Teresa, helping me to my feet. But I wasn't going down on my first confrontation with – as I assumed – Pardee's crew.  
"I came to buy some clothes, and some clothes I'll buy!" I declared, limping back into the store with Teresa hovering anxiously. I tried to bring my mind back onto the new clothes but I'd seen Johnny standing outside the saloon. Just watching.

* * *

"I like your new hat!" said Teresa. We'd stopped by the river on the way back to the ranch so I could clean up a little.  
"Thanks." I said as she came down the bank with it in her hand. I knew I'd won her over.  
Johnny rode up to us. Teresa looked at him with disgust, handed me my jacket and walked back to the buckboard.  
"I told you to stay out of it, didn't I?" he said to me.  
"Well _you_ did, anyway." Teresa had told me that she'd run to him, asking him to come and help me. His answer had been a simple "Nope". Now he dismounted and came up to me.  
"Well, if you wanna get yourself killed, that's your business," he declared.  
I kept my temper.  
"That's quite a bruise you got," he added.  
I lost my temper.

The punch sent him rolling down the bank, almost into the river.

"I just couldn't resist thanking you for your help," I said, and added "Brother!" It was the second thing I did that day that I was ashamed of later but at that moment it felt absolutely right.

"Don't you call me brother because we share that old man's blood," Johnny snarled as he scrambled back up the bank. He landed me a punch that sent me against the tree and we lit into each other.  
"Stop it!" yelled Teresa.  
"You mean nothin' to me!" Johnny shouted.  
Teresa jumped off the wagon seat and ran over, yelling "Stop it! Stop it! You hear me!" She ran between the two of us. "You ought to be ashamed, brothers fighting."  
Johnny and I stared at each other for a moment and I came to my senses. "Look, I'm sorry," I said.  
He walked away.  
"Wait a minute, we ought to be able to get along. After all, we both came here for the same reason," I called after him.  
Johnny pulled out the gold piece from his pocket and held it up. "That's why I came," he said.  
"The money?" I asked in disbelief.  
"What else?" he snarled.  
"My mistake." That was it. I decided I might as well give up on him.

I turned away as he mounted up but he lashed out, "Why do you think I came? Loyalty and love for Murdoch Lancer? You wanna know what he did to my mother? He gave her the keys to the road one day and said, 'what's keeping you? And just a minute, don't forget buster, here.'"  
He turned his horse and started to ride away but Teresa shouted after him, "That's not true, that's not true about Mr. Lancer and your mother. He never made her leave. She left of her own free will."  
He growled, "Now listen, you don't know what ..."  
"She ran off with somebody," Teresa refused to be dismissed. "He was some kind of a gambler or something. She just packed up and left with him."  
"Did _he_ tell you that?" he queried cynically.  
"No, my father told me, and it's true," she declared. "If anybody was done a wrong, Johnny, well, it was Murdoch Lancer. And there's something else you ought to know ... "  
"Alright!" he made to ride away again.  
"No, no, listen," Teresa shouted, grabbing the horse's reins and pulling it to a halt. She looked up at Johnny. "When your father wasn't sure whether he'd live or die, I sat with him. And he kept saying your mother's name, Johnny, asking for her. So if you want to hate him because he's, he's stubborn or wrong headed lots of the time, or proud, well, they're, they're faults, but don't hate him for your mother, Johnny, because he loved her."

At that moment we heard someone yelling "Señor Murdoch! Isidro!" It was a Lancer vaquero, galloping towards the ranch and shouting at the top of his voice, "Señor Murdoch! "Señor Murdoch! Es terrible!" Something was badly wrong. I jumped into the buckboard and whipped up the horse, pausing for a moment to swing Teresa in as she ran up, then heading at top speed to the ranch. Johnny was riding ahead of us. For the moment, our argument was forgotten.

"What is it, man? What's the matter?" demanded Murdoch as the vaquero jumped off his horse and ran up to him.

"I ride, I see smoke, at Gaspar's place, I ride over there, I see ... patrón!" The vaquero burst into tears, collapsing against Murdoch in distress.

What we saw at the neighbouring ranch was past description. I'd seen some atrocious things during the war but this was sheer barbarous brutality. The place was destroyed, the remains of fences stood blackened, one wagon was still burning. The rancher's body was strung up by its feet above the barn door. We all just stood and stared for a moment, appalled beyond any words. It was Murdoch who found the rancher's wife in the house, raped and murdered., the butchered bodies of her children lying beside her.

"The trail is clear. They rode for the San Benitos," Cipriano reported. Murdoch gave his orders. We were going after them.

* * *

"Don't you think we oughta talk about this?" said Johnny. I was in my room, changing. I hated to admit it but it felt good to be in clothes meant for action again.  
"We can talk on the way, while we're after them."  
Stepping into the room, he asked, "Did you ever think that that's exactly what they want us to do?"  
"The thought did cross my mind," Did he think I was half-witted? "But that trail could also lead us to their camp."  
"Unless they double back through Morro Coyo, that way they can hit the ranch while we're miles away somewhere chasin' tracks." That's exactly what I was thinking but I wasn't going to say so to this arrogant kid. I'd had enough of him. He was so sure he was the only one capable of doing anything. Besides, and more importantly, I didn't fully trust him. If he came with us, I would tell him my plan. Otherwise, better not.

Murdoch strode into the room, followed by Cipriano.  
"The men are all mounted and waiting. Cipriano!" He turned to me. "You said you wanted to talk to him."  
"Cipriano, you said the tracks lead to the San Benito Mountains. You know them well?" I asked him.  
"Like my hand, Señor."  
"Is there a pass up there?"  
"A steep one. And narrow."  
"Can you find it?"  
"With my eyes shut, Señor."  
"Good." I looked over at Johnny, "Ready?" Johnny stared at me and then turned to Murdoch.

"You know what's gonna happen up there with a couple of cowhands and a tin soldier?" He turned back to me. "That sun'll be coming down in about half an hour and you're gonna be stumblin' around up there in the dark, blowin' each other's heads off."  
I looked at Murdoch. "You call the tune, what do you say?"  
"I say you go." His words were firm. I headed for the door.

"Cipriano, tell the men we'll be right there."  
I stopped in the doorway and turned back to Johnny. "Coming?"  
He said nothing. I followed Cipriano out. Johnny stayed.

* * *

I led the men out towards the mountains. I was almost certain that, as Johnny had said, Pardee wanted to lure us away then double back to attack the ranch. It was one of the oldest military tactics in the book, but I'd make sure we got back before he did and give him a nice surprise when he rode into the supposedly unprotected ranch. If by chance that wasn't his plan, then we would follow them to their camp and attack them there. Either way, there was no point in delaying. The attack on the neighbouring ranch was an obvious goad but if we didn't take up the challenge this time, they would simply do it again somewhere else.

Cipriano and I led the men along the trail, hopefully in full view of anyone who was watching. Out of the corner of my eye, I kept a watch on the rocks above the trail. Sure enough, Pardee and his men were there, looking out for the Lancer contingent. Once our men had passed out of sight, apparently intent on following the laid trail, a man I assumed was Pardee gave the orders to mount up and he and his men headed back towards Morro Coyo. I slipped up into the rocks in turn and watched them ride off. Once I was sure they were on their way, I returned to the men and we started back for the ranch.

Cipriano led the way through the pass. He was right, it was steep and narrow and needed careful going, but once out of the mountain terrain we made for the ranch at a gallop. There, I spread the men out to cover the house front and back, some on the porch, some on the roof to keep lookout.

Murdoch and Teresa were waiting in the house.

"What happened?" demanded Murdoch as I came back in.  
"Nothing ... yet!" I reported. "We rode just far enough to make them think we'd taken the bait, then we cut back through Cipriano's pass. They should be along soon. It'll be daylight in a few minutes." I poured a drink, grabbing a moment's respite before going back outside.  
"Teresa, get my rifle," said Murdoch. She left the room to fetch the gun.  
"Where's Johnny?" I asked.

"Gone." His reply and, more, his tone startled me. "Gone where?" I asked, a strange disappointment coming over me. Surely he hadn't walked out altogether?

"What difference," replied Murdoch. There was bitter resignation in his voice.

We got our rifles ready and waited. Not for long; it was only a few minutes later that the ranch bell sounded. I ran to the window.

"Here they come!" A troop of riders were in sight, galloping towards the hacienda. Murdoch and I ran outside and took up positions on the terrace. Teresa stayed closer to the door but she had a box of bullets with her, ready to do her part reloading the guns. The men started raising their rifles.

"Hold your fire, they're still out of range," I ordered.

One man was galloping in, well ahead of the others.

"Here comes the first one," I said, raising my rifle as the rider jumped the fence and headed straight towards the house, galloping hard.

"Wait!" yelled Murdoch. "It's Johnny!" My heart sank. Johnny had joined with Pardee? There was one dreadful moment, but then as we watched, he turned in the saddle and fired at the men behind him. He wasn't leading them in, they were chasing him.

Pardee's men were firing at Johnny as they rode. Johnny fired again and one man fell. Then Pardee raised his gun and fired and we saw Johnny tumble off his horse to the ground as the bullet struck. Murdoch closed his eyes for a moment as Teresa screamed "Johnny!" I started down the terrace steps to go to him but Murdoch stopped me.

"Scott, it's no use." There was despair in his voice as he added, " I don't understand what that boy was trying to do!"

"He was coming back to us!" declared Teresa. I saw the tears in her eyes. I saw the pain in Murdoch's. One moment, as I realised how dear these two people had become to me, then I turned and headed down the steps, to bring Johnny back for them.

Pardee and his men had reached the stretch of ground in front of the house and the fight was on in earnest. At first our men had the advantage; they were in strategic positions and ready to fire, while Pardee's men had come on in a disorganised charge, intent on chasing Johnny. Our vaqueros picked off the front riders with relative ease but these were no amateurs, they were seasoned gunfighters and within moments they were off their horses, using the tree cover to best advantage and firing hard. We actually outnumbered them as a result of the men they'd lost in that first charge and to Johnny's gun on the way to the ranch – I found out later that he'd killed four of them before Pardee's bullet hit him – but it was no easy fight. I reached the ground level and was firing, looking for a clear way to get to Johnny. Murdoch was watching Johnny too as he fired. Suddenly I heard him gasp, as he realised that Johnny was still alive.

Johnny had rolled over enough to raise his gun and fire with deadly accuracy at one of Pardee's men who was running past him. The man fell.

"Look at that! Look at your brother!" Murdoch shouted. Even as he said the words, Johnny fired three more bullets from where he lay and three more of Pardee's men fell to the ground. He was fighting for us.

"Cover me, I'm going out after him." I ran out to Johnny, firing my rifle as I dodged towards him. Isidro – good man! – came out from the other direction and between us we grabbed Johnny and hauled him to the base of a tree that could give some protection. I swung around and my next shot got a man who I recognised as one of the troublemakers in the store on the previous day. Then I saw the man who had been giving orders up among the rocks the night before – Pardee.

I got Pardee in my sights. Shot once, saw him slump; shot again. He slid to the ground, dead. I felt no compunction then, feel none now. He got the bullets he'd fired at others; this time they hit him.

A shout: "They've got Pardee! Come on, let's get out of here! Come on!" We fired a few more shots but Pardee's men were already retreating, running for their horses, one or two whose horses had been lost jumping up behind their comrades. They galloped off. It was over.

Johnny looked up at me. "That was good shootin'."

"Thanks, brother." I paused. "We'd just about given up on you, boy."

"Well, you had your plan and I had mine," he said. He hauled himself to his feet.

"Take your time, take your time," I told him, putting my arm under his.

"I can make it." He shook my arm off, but gently. Determined to walk back himself, he managed half a dozen steps before collapsing. I caught him as he fell, put him over my shoulder and carried him back to where – our – father was waiting.

* * *

It was a week later. Johnny was fully recovered and he, Murdoch, and I were in the office of James Randolph, a lawyer in Morro Coyo. We were signing the agreement of partnership. Teresa was standing beside Johnny as Murdoch and I signed.

"Sign ... there." The lawyer handed me the pen and I signed the document. He passed the pen over to my father, saying "Just above your name." Murdoch put his signature where Randolph had indicated. I looked over at him and his eyes met mine.

With the signing of the paper my father had given me Lancer. With the look that passed between the two of us, I realised that Lancer had given me my father.

"And you, sir?" The lawyer addressed Johnny.  
"Oh Mr Randolph, I should have told you," said Murdoch. "That last name should read John Madrid, not Lancer."  
"I'll fix it in a minute." The lawyer moved to alter the document. Johnny drew a deep breath.  
"No," he said. "Let it stand."

Lancer had given me a brother, as well.


End file.
